


The Merest Feather

by Nabielka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:27:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22427041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabielka/pseuds/Nabielka
Summary: Regulus is not quite sure what to make of finding himself the subject of the new Potter’s interest.
Relationships: Regulus Black/Harry Potter
Comments: 18
Kudos: 398
Collections: Past Imperfect Future Unknown 2019





	The Merest Feather

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prosodiical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosodiical/gifts).



“It’s only Dumbledore’s propaganda.” Rosier’s voice was a bare breath by his ear. Madam Pince, walking past, would scarcely have registered it. “The Dark Lord wouldn’t treat his loyal supporters thus.” A pause. “Maybe some traitor or floundering weakling, but nothing to people like us. My father – ”

A faint sound in one of the aisles behind them, slightly to the left of Regulus’ shoulder. Rosier fell silent. His quill scratched a few lines, as though he had been confirming with Regulus the reason for the extended duration of a standard dose of Felix Felicis brought about by Margolin’s changes. 

He was not to find out what Rosier’s father had said or done. Regulus knew him, unlike his own parents, to have been a supporter of the Dark Lord in those early beginnings, in deed more than mere ideology. Rosier huffed a breath at the ink of his last letters, rolled up his scroll and took up a couple of the books he had taken off the shelves, leaving the others behind for Regulus’ disposal, as if to suggest the disruption had been his fault. Standing, he bent down again, one hand still resting on the table between them and said softly, “Potter.”

If there was blame to be ascribed to either, perhaps it did fall upon Regulus. 

He did not know Potter’s loyalties. Selwyn thought he might be Dumbledore’s spy, since he had come so late into the school and nobody had seen him Sorted, but when Rosier engaged him in a game of chess, he sat for more than an hour without taking anything to his lips; Parkinson, passing by and ostensibly aiming at her younger sister, whom she was forever chasing about beautification charms, had hit him with a number of spells that ought to have restored his appearance had there been any changes to be made. 

What he had noticed, though he was not about to help Selwyn to it, was that Potter did seem to pay particular attention to a few people: a certain set of Gryffindors Regulus tried his best not to think about these days, Snape, Regulus himself. 

Even now, his eyes ostensibly on the 1905 amendments to the membership countries of the International Confederacy of Wizards, which he intended to make note of in his essay, he felt himself watched. His stack of books, too far to be identified; his notes, too far to be copied; his immediate opportunities of conversation gone with Rosier; his shoulders, the line of his back… what did Harry Potter expect to see? Even the girls who cast glances at Sirius – not a frequent inhabitant of the library – took care to position themselves so as to see him at least in profile. 

All at once, he felt the frustration rise. He tended to control it better, but he was hit at times with the same flashes of impetuosity as Sirius, as Bellatrix. When it came to Sirius, his mother screamed that it was Gryffindor recklessness, the fault of Dumbledore and his halfbreeds; for himself and Bellatrix, she called it a Black trait, the blood of her fathers. After all, why should Potter watch him? 

Without much deliberation, he turned. Potter’s body was positioned to the shelf, but he had not turned in time. Their eyes met. 

A blink, and Potter seemed to give the idea of pretence up for lost. This was another sticking point for Selwyn, who appeared to consider that a wizard of age sorted into Slytherin must perforce come with his Slytherin traits as developed as though he’d attended Hogwarts since the age of eleven. Potter did not dissemble well. He abandoned the tomes on the Lithuanian Wizarding Confederation of 1768 and came to sit by Regulus. 

He sat in Rosier’s place. For a moment, Regulus could not keep from his mind the impression of Potter leaning over much as Rosier had done, his mouth almost to Regulus’ ear, the smell of the scent he used. 

This moment of weakness was enough for Potter’s wand to come out. Regulus tensed, reached for his own, the brief moment of tenderness he had felt dissipating into sick self-recrimination. 

But Potter did not aim at him. This was unlikely to make Madam Pince any more sympathetic, but was a relief for Regulus as the initial panicked flare passed. He realised that Potter, who had already acquired a reputation for being good at DADA, could not be such a simpleton as to give up the superior position for mere proximity to his target. Potter cast instead a spell Regulus did not recognise and which seemed to produce no noticeable effect. 

Having done so, he leaned back in his chair and said, making no effort to whisper, “Rosier’s wrong. You’ll regret it if you join.”

Regulus’ eyes dropped to Potter’s forearm. It was a move without thinking; it was covered by a sleeve. When he raised them again, Potter’s face had changed. He looked sickened.

“I would never,” he said, and the last word was almost a hiss. Then, his teeth half gritted, the words any younger sibling had cause to despise, “There’s a lot you don’t know.” Regulus bristled, half-repressed, but Potter did not stop to notice. “Voldemort – ”

This time it was Regulus who moved closer, even as his head tilted. Nobody appeared to have heard. “Are you insane?” he hissed, and for a mad moment himself thought of Selwyn’s suggestion, Dumbledore’s words, Dumbledore’s spy, and he had heard, he knew what they had talked about. It had not been a long conversation, it had not been explicit. Slughorn would do nothing: two of his students discussed politics. Still… 

Potter’s mouth was pursed. He seemed, absurdly, to have moved from that rough taken-aback displeasure to a sort of tired exasperation. “You can talk of joining him but you can’t bear the name?”

Regulus said, “It was a political discussion. You get the _Prophet_.” 

Potter had not moved back. His eyes really were very green. “The _Prophet_ calls him You-Know-Who. But that’s what I’m saying: you don’t know who. Surely you’d agree it’s wiser – more cunning – to learn as much as you can before doing anything?” 

A first year could have handled it more smoothly. Regulus, who was himself scrambling, said, “I suppose you’re on Dumbledore’s side. Since you talk of not knowing, you might well learn better the longer you’re in Slytherin. It’s only thoughtless Gryffindors who idolise him that think otherwise: if he’s told you anything, it’s only to his own purposes.” 

A flicker of something across Potter’s face. “Some of it Dumbledore doesn’t know either, in the present time.”

The warning was clear: Dumbledore might be brought to know it. 

Regulus himself was only a sixth year, but this was not about Regulus. Potter hadn’t watched Rosier, after all, but Regulus and his brother, before apparently coming to a decision, or maybe hearing that Sirius had actually been disowned. Whatever Potter wanted in return was in the giving of the House of Black, or at least he thought it to be. 

He felt the shame at the error more keenly than the disappointment. “I see,” he said, and his voice concealed it. 

Potter’s eyes remained fixed upon Regulus’ face for a moment more. “I have to get to Transfiguration. I only wanted – we should talk.” Regulus thought there was a slight twist to his mouth. After all, Potter’s Transfiguration class held certain Gryffindors. 

“Not in the library,” he said. That Potter had come to talk with him at all rendered it clearly unadvisable, no matter how casually Potter himself acted, as though nothing could touch him. Regulus thought briefly of Selwyn, more so of the Gryffindors, of Sirius who had a knack for turning up just where he was least wanted. 

The Common Room was evidently unsuitable; it would be like trying to hold such a conversation in the Great Hall. He could sneak away, but he was not his brother, casting off the webs that tied families like theirs together. Someone would notice, someone would use it. 

“Saturday’s Hogsmeade weekend,” he said. 

That too was not wise, but the cost was personal. To walk out with Potter in front of everybody… Nobody would think they talked of the Dark Lord. They would think Potter had taken Regulus off to press against him in the cold, the only warmth that of his mouth. Knowing that, Regulus would think of it too, would face over and over the reminder that it was not like that.

“All right,” said Potter. “Only let’s skip Madam Puddifoot’s. It’s not really to my taste.” 

For all that, Potter’s smile was softer than Regulus could have expected. He told himself it was only the pleasure of having manouvered the conversation as he wanted and yet could not quite shake the effect it had on him, lingering even after Potter's departure.


End file.
